Come and Try
by Tari Roo
Summary: Prompt fic: Aftermath ficlet. John is back home after being held captive and tortured. Pure comfort, with the team finding their way around him.


Come and Try 1/2

Author: **tari_roo**

Rating: PG13 (Gen)

Fandom: SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing

AN: 3rd (and probably final) comment fic from **kriadydragon** 's gencomment fic exchange.

Prompt: Subversive

Characters: Sheppard, team or one of the team

Request: Hard-core comfort, baby! Basically, aftermath fic that involves someone having tried to subvert John, hurting him mentally and physically, leaving him skittish, jumpy, wary and all around miserable. Cue team - or team member - comfort. You don't need to go into what was done to John if you don't want, I'm mostly just interested in the comfort, though I would like for John to still be injured (just rescued or slowly on the mend) when the comfort takes place. Feel free to allow Ronon to take revenge on the one who tried to dominate John :D

Don't want: For this story to take place weeks or months after rescue. John's team forcing him to open up. A quick fix (that is, someone saying the magic words that makes everything all better, and everything goes back to normal. Life isn't usually that accommodating).

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"Are the restraints really necessary?"

The Infirmary was studded in stillness, the soft whisper of high tech equipment, nurses padding slowly about in unhurried labours, the breathless anticipation of a place of healing, where death too often waited to take its dues.

"I am afraid so, Rodney. He's not in his right mind most of the time and it safeguards both the staff and him from further injury."

If a hurricane has an eye of eerie stillness and calm, then John Sheppard's corner of the Infirmary was an encapsulated bubble of artificial peace. Soft white privacy curtains shielded him from view, the hiss of oxygen and the beep of a heart monitor the only sounds permitted within its confines.

"Would that not perpetuate his condition, Carson? Being confined and alone?"

The narrow sliver of break in the curtains afforded anyone sitting in Carson's office an intermittent view of Sheppard's foot, as the curtains fluttered with the motion of nurses, and the open window in John's room. The off beige of thick, padded restraint on his ankle made his skin seem translucent and fragile, dark hairs all the more vivid against the ghostly skin.

"Aye, lass, I am sure that it does. But I cannot afford him attacking anyone again and once the drugs have left his system, we can set him loose."

The curtain breathed open, a rising ocean breeze giving it wings for a moment, and the clear blue Lantean sky outside splashed a flash of colour in the white morass, before falling closed. In that moment, like a half forgotten dream, John seemed to be merely resting, quietly gazing out of the window, at peace with the world. But as the curtain fell, closing that window of memory, the real memories intruded and the mind's eye completed what was only glimpsed. Right arm encased in plaster, strapped to his chest, hand and feet trapped beneath leather bindings and the sickening glimpse of bandages beneath those self same restraints.

"Ronon back?"

"No, he's still out beating trees and breaking rocks. Woolsey won't let him back until he promises to stop trying to kill him."

"Aye."

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It was late, or early, depending on whichever notion you preferred. Neither day or night, but somewhere in between, it was a time of promise and regret with yesterday fading and tomorrow still hours away.

Carson sat at his desk, an array of reports and charts scattered in organized chaos. His screen was flickering through images of sea life from Old and New Lantea, a strangely colourless display of sliver, white and black. His shift had ended hours ago, and Keller would be chasing him home soon. Yet, it was not the charts, or reports and monochrome sea life that held him in place.

The curtain directly facing him had been pulled back to let in the cool breeze of a hot summer night. A single, bright green plant from Athos, twisted in the breeze, three or so leaves bending on the long stalk top heavy with a bright red flower.

Rodney was in the chair closest to the window, his feet propped up on the military style, hospital standard, stereotypical bedside cabinet of drawers. The little flower was perched perilously close to his feet, its blossom kissing his boots occasionally.

An oversized tablet was propped up on his lap, the glow from its screen a mirrored promise to the brightening horizon. A thick, black stylus ran along the tablet, squiggling through complex equations, twirling through the complicated dance of the universe.

Occasionally the mad dance would pause, the equation solved or a hitch in his thinking bringing the figures to a standstill. Either a new equation would appear, or he'd clear the slate and start again. Over and over again the dance began, wound to climax and ended. Waltz, foxtrot, tango, quick step. On and on, a ballroom's delight, deciphering and plumbing the mysterious of space and time.

It wasn't the dance though that captivated Carson and motivated Rodney. Because, sometimes, just occasionally, erratically, Rodney would pause at some unheard note. And he'd lift the tablet so that John could see better, and a trembling finger would wave vaguely at some complicated twirl. Rodney would stare sometimes, shake his head more often than not, or on the odd occasion scratch out his workings and make corrections, fresh leaps and pirouettes completing the solution.

The peculiar dance of stylus corrected by the haphazard finger of a friend refusing to sleep gave the whole scene a dreamlike moment, like you could blink and think it a dream. Carson waited for each movement, for each glimmer of John Sheppard. But what had kept Carson glued to his seat, legs numb, charts forgotten, bed ignored, was the complete and utter silence that enveloped the scene.

Not a word, or murmur passed between them, the only sounds the ambient noise of pre-dawn life and the scratch of the stylus.

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The crash of the lunch tray joining the bedpan drew most eyes, but none lingered. And that was followed no doubt by the IV stand, top drawer and instrument tray.

So, probably too soon to take off the restraints.

John had been so quiet since Rodney's late night vigil and his blood work had been clear, so off came the restraints. And so disintegrated the calm and quiet.

Sheppard didn't like being touched. At all. Would only endure it if restrained. If not... there was no getting near him.

Teyla had sent Rodney off to his rooms for well deserved rest even if they both knew he'd only go and take his ill temper out on his well adjusted, well habituated staff.

And so the problems had started. Teyla like to touch. Always had, always would. To soothe, to calm, to laugh, to disagree. Her fingers were swift, practiced and nearly had habits of their own. Brush an errant hair away, straighten a sheet, fluff a pillow, reassure a friend on the edge.

Now, she was standing with her arms wrapped around her, withdrawn and afraid, on the very edge of the area designated 'Sheppard's'. He had run out of things to throw, bed in disarray, a trickle of blood running down his arm from where he'd pulled out the IV.

Keller was trying to calm him down, her voice evenly toned, posture as non threatening as she could manage whilst being desperate to get John back into bed, and away from the open window. She'd sent the nurses away, and wanted to send Teyla away, but between John's wild look and Teyla's quiet despair, she had neither the heart nor will to do so.

"Please, Colonel. Let me help you, I am sure you could use a shot of morphine right about now."

Everything about Sheppard screamed, 'just come and try,' the IV stand a heavy weapon, keeping them at bay, its top heavy end often kissing the floor.

"John, please."

The IV stand swung to point at Teyla, shaking with effort, telegraphing his exhaustion and fear. Neither of the women moved though, waiting for the inevitable, for John to tire, drop the metal stand, collapse.

The red smears and trails of blood on his white scrubs grew, and his encased fingers writhed with frustrated effort and Jennifer sighed, plaintively, "Please, Colonel. Please, just let us help you."

Sheppard dropped the IV stand and hurled the plant and its earthy brown pot with fair accuracy at Keller. Teyla followed his gaze, knew her friend so well, had stood side by side, back to back with him and had felt buoyed by the expression on his face. Now, now his determination to go down fighting hollowed her out, and left nothing behind.

It was either the pair scissors or the blunt knife and she was moving even as John dived for one of them. It didn't take much to knock him off course and off balance and Teyla only held on long enough for Jennifer to jab a needle into his hip, before backing away from him, leaving him to a doctor's care.

Teyla didn't turn around to watch as nurses arrived to help Keller, their voices soft and soothing and utterly useless as they touched and touched and lifted and petted. Teyla didn't turn around to see John relax in boneless tension, arms stiff and fighting the drugs, feet twitching as hands ran over his flesh.

Teyla ran the moment the Infirmary doors closed behind her, the moment she could be certain John would not see, even if he never would remember. She ran from the startlingly betrayal in his eyes, dark and bruised, red from exhaustion and so, so angry.

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Hot summer days lead to stormy, humid evenings. Day shift handed over to night, sun stamped cards and tipped a hat to the moons. Keller morphed into Carson, forgotten lunch trays became ignored dinner trays. Bloodied bandages became white.

But some things never change.

Ronon lurked in the shadows of doorway and office, a spectre of the wild visiting the trappings of modern life. He could still smell the damp earth under his fingers, the sickly sap of broken branches and tang of sweat and anger. More importantly, he could smell blood.

Sheppard reeked of it.

It had been a silent argument. Carson had gestured at a distance, insistent, but giving John the space he needed. Sheppard had just stood, glared, dared him, every fibre of his being egging Carson to cross a line, step over a fence John had put up.

Bedpan refused. Short trip to the bathroom, wheeled IV stand the only concession. And now, refusal to return to bed.

If John had slept, it had been in short, ragged moments of unconsciousness before fighting to be awake. Drugs, needles, pills, drips were all fought, with gritted determination. Sheppard vibrated so much stay away, stay away, stay away that you were only sensible if you agreed to it.

No doubt muttering soft accented imprecations on fools who turned good men inside out, Carson left John by the window. He nodded at Ronon as he passed into his office, a new vigil to sit.

Sheppard was pressed against the wall, face away from the door, fixed on the ocean and sky, on the distant storm clouds, the play of lightning on the surface of water. The rumble was felt more than heard, thunder a promise far from reality.

Silent, Ronon slipped from the shadows and brushed aside the fluttering curtain, that had a ragged tear down the middle. The movement was minute, reflex and recently learned, Sheppard tensing and waiting, preparing for whatever came.

The rescued plant was in an old metal mug, its petals bruised and missing, leaves crumpled.

Like a wave, relentless, purposeful and a force of tides, Ronon closed the distance between then and John twitched. Stopping a breath away from touching, brushing aside 'personal space' in favour of 'safe', Ronon waited for John to relax.

The storm had moved closer by the time he did. Shoulders slumped, fingers stopped writhing, fist unclenched, knee stopped bobbing. The soft exhale was all the sign Ronon needed and he moved with practiced, drilled, instinctive swiftness, wrapping warm, earthy arms around his friend.

Sheppard didn't just stiffen, he bristled, as Ronon pulled him into an all encompassing embrace.

"No."

It sounded nothing like it should.

Broken, beaten, afraid.

But the fist was familiar. A sharp jab into his kidney, and then another. A fast bony knee bruising his inner thigh rather than finding its mark. Black, matted, blood tainted hair crashing into his chin.

"No."

Ronon absorbed it all, the motion flowing through him, moving with the pain, tightening his hold with gentle intent.

"Stop, please."

Head heavy with regret, sorrow and grief, Ronon dropped his chin onto the soft crown of dark hair, ignoring the trembling, refusing to hear the shaking inside. He held on tight, eyes on the storm, deaf to the shuddering breathes. Pressing lips unused to such efforts into Sheppard's hair, he waited.

The storm was rattling Atlantis when he felt John move, fingers snagging his shirt, leaning into the hold, breath deepening, face buried. The murmur was exhalation on the cusp of emotion.

"Don't let go."

And Ronon didn't.

Fin


End file.
